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Full text of "To The Lighthouse"

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THE   WINDOW

Lighthouse.   He looked into the hedge, into its
intricacy, its darkness.

Always, Mrs, Ramsay felt, one helped oneself
out of solitude reluctantly by laying hold of some
little odd or end, some sound, some sight.    She
listened, but it was all very still; cricket was over;
the children were in their baths;  there was only
the sound of the sea.   She stopped knitting;  she
held the long reddish-brown stocking dangling
in  her hands a  moment.     She  saw  the light
again.    With  some irony in her interrogation,
for when one woke at all, one's relations changed,
she looked  at   the   steady  light,   the   pitiless,
the remorseless,   which was so much  her,  yet
so  little her, which  had  her  at its beck  and
call (she woke  in  the night and  saw it  bent
across  their   bed,  stroking   the floor),  but  for
all that she thought, watching it with fascination,
hypnotised, as if it were stroking with its silver
fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose
bursting would flood her with delight, she had
known  happiness,  exquisite  happiness,   intense
happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little
more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue
went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of
pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke
upon  the beach and the ecstasy burst in her
eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the

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